Benefaction
by Lorelai's Asleep
Summary: Holiday Fic. Knowing where you come from sometimes helps you figure out where you're going. - Penned in December 2001, this collaboration was written with Mish, an awesome writer. The story is set some time after Mulder goes into hiding. It's angsty MSR, but sweet and with a twist. There is another character in this story, but not an OC. You'll figure it out. ;D


BENEFACTION  
co-written with Mish

A hard place is Rhode Island in winter. Oh, it's pretty enough in the lowering light of a New England afternoon on the penultimate day of the year - all pine roping, white lights and holly wreaths. To the casual onlooker, it's a picture of veritable peace, love and joy; a Norman Rockwell come to life. Beneath the bucolic surface, however, emotions roil like anywhere else and there's no denying the wind that lifts my coat. It's mild for December, if you can call the mid-thirties mild; but ice still lies in wait below the tepid air, waiting to tamp down any burgeoning warmth with malevolent glee.

The road is empty and I head towards the cottage using only backroads familiar to the locals. There's no reason to make my presence known any more than necessary these days, even in a small town like Quonochontaug. The radio is tuned to a self-proclaimed oldies station. Oldies, huh? Since when are the 80's ancient history? College memories stir in the back of my mind as Simon Le Bon croons "...but I won't cry for yesterday. There's an ordinary world somehow I have to find..." Have twenty years really come and gone? Does ordinary even apply to somebody like me?

The loneliness of the day gets to me and I pull into a filling station that sits at a quiet intersection of multiple road signs pointing the way, though people always seem to miss them. Figures. Turning off the engine, I'm cheered a little bit by the sight of the gaily-bedecked cashier's office. Gold garland frames the gleaming plate-glass windows and colored lights wink their happy holiday message to the world at large.

A stocky man of indeterminate age approaches my vehicle without a sound. His red stocking cap is pulled low over his ears and when I request a fill-up, he grunts at me. Actually, he reminds me of Anson Stokes, Scully's Invisible Man, complete with spiky beard. He's shorter in stature, by far, and with a temper to match. Grumbling under his breath, I practically "feel" the cracking of his neck as he rolls it from side to side. I wonder if this fellow's got a genie hidden in the back somewhere, too. If ever I needed three wishes, it's now.

While he finishes up, I reach into the open door of the Jeep for my empty thermos and my wallet. "Nice evening," I say in an attempt at conversation.

"Yeah," Anson mumbles, tugging at his green jacket. "If you like to sweat."

O-kay. So, it's not a picture-perfect holiday season complete with snow and frigid temperatures, but neither is it Miami out here. My fortyish bones ache. "It could be worse... We could be in Buffalo."

He snorts. "I wish," then signals me to follow him as I hand him a twenty. A bell jingles overhead as we enter the tiny cashier's office. It's not much warmer inside, but it beats freezing. A tall, broad-shouldered figure comes through the door at the back of the room, shutting it against the low noise beyond. Before I can say a word, he reaches for the black-and-white television that sits on a side counter. The announcer's voice blares for a second, then mutes just a bit as the large man gives me a sheepish grin.

"Hey, Pops," his attendant barks to the man before slapping the bill onto the counter. "Think we'll get out of here some time this year?" A vehicle pulls up to the pump and he gives the old man a roll of his eyes before turning on his heel. I stifle the urge to strong-arm him against the wall and tell him to respect his elders.

"Fill 'er up?" a deep voice rumbles. I turn back to be met by a pair of piercing green eyes. "Your thermos," he adds with a jut of his chin.

"Highest octane," I reply, setting the aluminum canister on the chipped orange laminate.

His work shirt is open at the collar with rolled-up sleeves revealing the warming layer of red woolen thermal underwear. "Kriss" is embroidered over his heart, in black script on the tan khaki cotton; must be his last name - the yellowed sign outside screams "K-W Garage" in half-lit neon glory. Is his attendant "W"? Somehow, I can't imagine the acid little man as part owner of this place. Kriss, however, looks to be a pleasant old fellow. The worn Patriots cap on his head looks as old as he is, which I guess to be seventy, given the snowy whiskers that cover his face. I'm not certain, but there's something familiar about him. He fills the thermos from a glass pot beside the register and I toss a bag of sunflower seeds beside it as he rings the sale.

"Too bad the Pats aren't on," I comment, keeping my baseball affinity to myself.

"People stayin' in on this dismal Sunday afternoon and all we get is Oakland and Denver. Who the heck cares about the West in these parts?"

I tighten the cap of the carafe and squint out at the glorious rays of the late afternoon sun. Dismal? "Maybe next week."

"F'sure," he replies with an intensity reserved for scolding small children. He tilts his head at me. "You from around here?"

"The Vineyard," I reply, pocketing the change on the counter. "Good weather been in long?"

Aged eyes squint at my attempt at misdirection. "Few days. Not very good for my line o'work," he jests. I chuff in agreement, eyeing the pristine tow truck parked at the far end of the lot, intending to remark on its shiny red and white panels. But he continues, pursuit of my purpose not disregarded. "Business or pleasure?"

"Actually, I'm just passing through." It seemed like a good idea Tuesday; spending my solitary Christmas at the old summer place. Sitting in the dark, the light from the fireplace my only comfort - wondering what my real family was doing while the ghosts of the one I'd lost surrounded me with musty, salty memories. I'm surprised I lasted through the weekend. Only sheer fatigue kept me there this long.

Recognition solidifies in his gaze as he rubs a hand over his beard. "You're Bill Mulder's boy, aren'tcha?" My eyes widen and he nods, convinced of his accuracy. "Thought I recognized somethin' about you."

"I'm sorry," I hesitate, unsure although my instincts don't signal danger. "You seem familiar, but..."

"It'll come to you."

"Uh-huh," I reply. Annoyed with his ambiguous response, but unwilling to concede ignorance, I fish for clues, convinced he's just being nosy. Gossip always was the favorite past time of the locals.

"Weekapaug Beach still private?"

"Sure thing," he responds and leans forward to rest his weight on the counter, his crossed arms pillowing his bulk. "Some travel magazine nearly did it in last year."

"Bad reviews?"

"Wish they'd been," he rues. "Been a battle between the naturalists and the tourists ever since."

I nod my understanding. "Sorry to hear that."

"They tried to pave over the sandy turnoff, just so the tourists could drive their cars to the beach." He shakes his head with a look that reveals his discontent with that idea, though his eyes remain soft. "Course, the townies and the summerfolk put a stop to that." He looks me square in the eye and says, "Your father would have opposed it."

I'm taken aback by his comment and without thinking, reply, "You're right." And then, for reasons that elude me, I add, "He passed away, you know."

Kriss nods. "I know. I'm sorry. He was a good man with a nice family."

"Thank you." My ambivalence towards my father haunts me. Scully's convinced he did what he could given the bizarre circumstances of his life and I'm not about to speak ill of the dead. I'm silent for a few moments before saying, "Those summers were special days."

"Better days in better times." The truth of his words hang heavy between us. "No family of your own?"

That prompts a half-smile from me. "Not in the usual sense," I tell him.

"Whatever it is, it's all we have now, isn't it?" His voice is thick with kindness. "Even that rude employee of mine is a blessing, or so I keep telling myself." We both turn to gaze through the plate-glass. Anson is wiping the windshield of a mini-van and joking with the driver. A young mother, multi-layered toddler in tow, is making her way back to the vehicle from behind the building where the rest rooms must be. He pulls a lollipop from his jacket pocket and hands it to her. She smiles and her harried features soften. Well, whaddya know. Maybe the little guy just doesn't like people taller than he is.

The old man's voice drops in volume, "I was sorry to see the Mulders leave Quonochontaug."

I shake my head. "It was for the best," I tell him then turn, anxious to leave this conversation behind. Getting a bit too personal for my tastes. And my safety.

"Fox?" he queries and I half-turn back, surprised at hearing my given name. "Just a minute," he says then squeezes through the back door. I sigh, impatient to get going. A few muffled thumps drift through the wall, as well as a hushed, mild curse or two. At a particularly vehement "Darn!" I begin to make my way around the counter, calling out, "You okay in there?" Must be the garage in the back; hope the old guy hasn't tripped over a bucket of grease or something. I can't afford many public appearances and Anson out there couldn't lift *one* of the guy's legs, much less help him to a vehicle.

"Yep. I'm okay!" he calls out, stilling my panic. A few more grunts and then I hear a crooning, "Easy now. Settle down," before he comes through the door again, securing it behind him. His cheeks are rosy as he faces me again. "Gotta bit of a mess back there. Supposed to be home by now, but the cart's got a dent or two. And the v-9 is itchin' to go."

"A v-9? You mean a v-8, don't you?" I ask, picturing him behind the wheel of an ancient Chevy.

"Well, I did a bit of modification to Old Lizzie quite a few years back. Fastest mode of transport I ever had. Wouldn't trade it for anything Detroit makes these days."

I scan my tired brain for an explanation without success. An automobile has to have an even number of cylinders, doesn't it? I'm about to ask about it when he beams a mega-watt smile at me.

"Merry Christmas, Fox," he chimes, producing a manila envelope from behind his back, switching gears before I can counter his illogical reasoning.

"Uhh..." I chuckle, embarrassment making me falter.

"I don't think..."

"Oh, take it. Had a few leftovers from the holiday freebies." His voice is warm and sincere as he shoves it into my hand. I accept to be gracious, certain it's one of those NAPA calendars with Miss May draped over the General Lee in a pair of hot pants and halter top. Only, in my imagination, Miss May has silky red hair and blue eyes. Oh, brother.

I can't think of anything else to say but, "Thanks," extending my right hand.

His grasp is firm and strong. "You miss them," he states with quiet conviction.

I look back into the green eyes and see nothing but concern. I don't know how much Mulder history he knows, but something tells me he isn't referring to my family of origin. He can't know about Scully and William or how much I hate being away from them or the nature of my sojourn, but his interest is genuine and I find myself answering with sincerity, "More than you know."

His grip tightens a bit and the warmth of his massive hand seeps into my cold one, filling me with a sudden serenity. "They're fine," he says and I blink back tears, surprised at the way his words comfort without effort. I don't understand, but no matter. I believe him. Pulling my hand from his with a slow nod, I turn up the collar of my jacket. In silence, I cradle the thermos and sunflower seeds in my arm and brave the cold outside.

"Happy New Year," Anson tosses off with a wave to me, still speaking to the occupants of the mini-van. I give him a small smile and a thumbs-up. Tossing my pack into the Jeep's cab, I rev the engine and leave.

Weekapaug's turnoff is where I expect it to be, though there's a new Stop-Go-Shop just before the asphalt morphs into hard-packed sand. The road winds through scrub pine for a bit then opens, without warning, onto shorefront. Parking the Jeep next to a pair of weathered picnic benches, I leave the cab behind, backpack in tow. Gray clouds roll in over the ocean and the temperature's dropping, but I still like the view. It's quiet, unspoiled. No hordes of frustrated families squeezing a year's worth of "quality time" into two weeks of summer sun; just a woman walking a big yellow dog and a couple of teens messing around under a blanket.

I walk the uneven edge of foam that runs parallel to the water and approach my destination: a large, flat hulk of granite overlooking the ocean. The Cliffs of Dover. At least that's what Sam and I used to call it, ignoring the fact that this rock was neither chalk-white or anything remotely cliff-like. But our innocence made the fantasy complete back in the days when we'd come to Weekapaug to water-ski and swim and dream. I'd seen photos of the real Cliffs in my geography textbook, along with images of Parliament and Stonehenge and other sights from Great Britain. I was enchanted with the country and its legends, imagining myself a great knight. I decided then that I'd see England one day, one way or another.

Scrambling across the slab's mottled length, I cover the distance to the seaward side. I'm quicker now though less agile. Damn getting older. I sit with my legs dangling over the jagged stones that rise from the wet sand like dragon's teeth. The ocean crashes against the base with regularity as deep cold seeps through my jeans. Adjusting my muffler over my mouth, I savor warm breath against my face. Reaching into my sack, I pull out the envelope and tear off one edge. A gust of wind whips the torn scrap from my hand and down the length of the beach. I watch it skitter into the sea and sink beneath the dark water. It's getting a bit dim, but there's just enough light left to do a quick look-see.

A quick pass of my hand within tells me this is no calendar. What the- My fingers slip around a lump of warmth. Upon inspection, my Indian Guide compass slips from a faded blue velvet bag. A man's handkerchief embroidered with a red "M" is next, and I remember the day Samantha gave it to Dad for his birthday. There's a pair of sunglasses, their pink tint and jeweled cat's-eye frames bringing to mind my mother's brilliant Fourth of July smile. A fishing lure made from Barbie doll hair tickles the palm of my hand. Samantha cried for two days over the loss of those golden locks, then immediately forgot about them when we landed a striper from this very same spot.

I examine each item, associating it with memories of my childhood summers. Whatever heartache the Mulders knew, life always seemed perfect in Q. Maybe I was too young or I've repressed it, but this was a good place for me. One of the few I think of with fondness. Yes, there are other, later memories that aren't so benign, but those Rhode Island summers are hazed with sentiment.

There are photos. Two - yellowed with age and stuck together back-to-back at the bottom of the envelope. I can't ease them apart without destroying the images, so I leave them together. The first is a picture of Dad and me when I was eight years old. We'd just won the Bluefish Derby and I was grinning ear-to-ear while Dad held the silver cup trophy, an arm wrapped around my shoulders and a proud smile on his face. That was a good day, as I recall, and nostalgia waxes strong. It fades when I see the other print. A very young version of my mother is trying to smile for the camera. She's wearing a pale two-piece suit, orchid corsage on the lapel, and a white pillbox hat perched atop coifed, dark hair. Dad is looking at her, a close-lipped smile on his face. I remember that smile. It was the one that said, "Let's make the best of things." It was a Mulder mantra.

I wonder what my father would think of his son now? I've tried to make the best of things. I've tried to do the right thing; make the necessary sacrifices. I've left it all behind, everything and everyone I know and love: my family, my friends, my work. I've left to protect them and to search for answers for the never-ending questions that fill my so-called life. I had no choice, did I? Did he? I stare at the print in hand. Behind my parents stand well-wishers, including Old Smokey himself. Even then the damned cigarette is in his left hand, along with a very visible wedding band. What truly strikes me, though, is the way he looks at my mother - wistfully, it seems. I spy another familiar face. Cassandra Spender was an attractive woman. Her youthful beauty, however, is marred by a scowl which, I realize with a jolt, is also directed towards my mother. The stamped date on the edge reveals more: April 1961. I was born six months later.

Rumor and innuendo shroud the truth of my lineage, and the pure and simple truth is that the truth is hardly pure and never simple. Samantha is with benevolent spirits, or so I'm reminded by the dreams that come to me. My mother carried most of her secrets to the grave while the man I consider my father lies cold in the ground, having shared nothing more of himself than cryptic missives and bittersweet memories. It's a sad legacy, but it's mine.

Indigo twilight streaks the sky and I stuff the photographs back into the envelope. With growing trepidation, I scramble back over the rock and run to my vehicle. I pull the door closed with frozen fingers and turn the Jeep's heater up full. Innocent old man, my ass. He has some explaining to do. I turn the Jeep onto Dovecote Road and head back towards town. At the isolated intersection, the filling station stands where I left it, though hardly *how* I left it. The office is dark and the sign in the soaped over plate window says: FOR SALE. That wasn't there before. The door is locked and the pumps are covered with a hardened crust of dirt and grime.

As I ponder these anomalies, a police car pulls up beside the Jeep. "Evening," says the uniformed deputy. "Can I help you?" Crap. A nosy cop I don't need, but my curiosity takes the upper hand over my reluctance to stay. A few questions won't hurt.

"What happened to Mr. Kriss?"

"Who?"

"The old man who runs this place. I was just here not long ago and this gas station was doing business."

"Doing business, huh?" The officer steps from his car and approaches with measured steps. His eyes are wary.

"Look," I say. "I'm an-" I bite off the 'FBI agent' and continue, frustration making my voice edgy. "I was here today on business. Mr. Kriss and his attendant took care of my vehicle. He said he knew my family. Knew me."

"You have some I.D.?" the officer asks and I can tell from his scrutiny that he thinks I'm either drunk or slightly mad. I produce my driver's license and his suspicions ease a bit. "No business has been conducted on these premises for over fifteen years."

"What?" My eyes squint with confusion, though I have to admit I'm intrigued just the same.

"You heard me. If you don't believe me, Mister...Hale," he says glancing back at license, "you can take it up at Town Hall. Now I suggest you move along."

It's fruitless to argue, so I nod, taking my license from him and returning to the Jeep. I head into town proper and park outside The Tack Room. No way I'm going back to the house tonight. Too risky. But I could use a hot bowl of chowder if I can't have a good explanation for what happened today. I'm tempted to investigate, but my heart isn't in it.

My thoughts, as they so often do, return to Scully and our son. Much as I feel a tug at my heart at the sight of happier days with my family of long ago, _they're_ my family now. After giving the waitress my order, I pull the envelope from my sack and go through the contents once again, fingering each one - this time with an eye toward the nuance of possible clues. I haven't seen these mementos in years. Were they tucked away in one of my family boxes? How the hell did the old man get hold of them, anyway? I put everything in storage in the basement of Scully's apartment...shit! The odds and ends spill on the countertop as I fumble for my cell phone. If he had access to these things, then he might have access to...

"Lone Gunmen." Frohike's voice is a lifeline to a man suddenly drowning in doubt.

"Alpha, Bravo, Charlie," I practically yell into the phone, giving him my emergency code before hanging up. Thirty seconds. He'll call me back in thirty seconds; just as soon as he can re-route the feed to my cell. It's the longest damn thirty seconds of my life and I grip the cell phone in one hand and the compass in the other, its pewter casing snapping open under the pressure of my fingers. With disbelieving eyes, I stare at the photo cut to fit the casing opposite the bezel.

Two sets of equally intense blue eyes gaze back at me and I'm held hostage by their shared countenance. The first set holds nothing but the wonder of a child, my child. The second set holds nothing but love. Scully's love. They pose before a Christmas tree, lit up with what looks like a thousand yellow candles. My breath hitches at the way Will complements his mother, his red jumper in perfect caroling harmony to her green velvet.

I must be losing my mind. I'm absolutely certain my compass was never graced with such inner beauty before. The soft bag it was wrapped in lies on the counter and a hint of eggshell white peeks from within. With trembling fingers, I pull out the miniature scroll and let it loose by tugging on the hair's breadth gold ribbon that holds it closed. In the soft glow of the table's lone candle, I read:

_Fox,_

_You seemed lost today. Thought you could use a bit of direction. Knowing where you come from sometimes helps you figure out where you're going. I know you're far from home. So am I, though by the time you read this, the v-9 should have me just about over Newfoundland. Like I told you, it's the only way to fly, especially with a nice rum toddy in hand. Thank goodness I take Wunorse Openslae with me. He may be a mean old bugger, but he knows his way around a broken-down sleigh and he lets this tired old gentleman rest easy all the way. The fielder's mitt wouldn't fit in the envelope, so I left it for William. Right field, if I recall correctly. You always were a good boy, Fox. You're even a better man._

_Believe._

_Kriss_

The shrill of my cell phone makes me jump, my open mouth breathing into it, "Yeah?"

"Mulder? What's wrong?" Scully says in a breathless voice filled with worry. My name on her tongue sounds like prayer. Will is fussing in the background and I picture them safe in our home. Frohike must have patched us together.

"Nothing. Just a false alarm."

I hear the hitch of her breath and she says quietly, "You scared me."

Hanging my head, I fight back the emotion that clogs my throat. "I'm sorry," I murmur, swallowing back the need to reach across space and touch her. "Catch you at a bad time?" I joke to ease the yearning that aches through my being. I wait a bit, wondering if she's crying. I feel a little like crying myself, sitting here with the old and new, dissipating depression slowly giving way to the simple joy of hearing her voice. We never should have said 'emergency calls only.'

"Scully? You okay?"

I hear her sigh and then she murmurs, her voice soft and loving across the miles, "We're fine, Mulder. We're fine."

"Are we?"

"Yes," she answers, composure restored and courage at the forefront. "We are."

"Scully?"

"Yeah?"

"You wouldn't happen to see my old fielder's mitt around there anywhere, would you?"

"Is _that_ where that came from? Don't tell me you got the guys to dig that up for you, Mulder."

"I guess you could say a friend dropped it off, but not the boys and," my voice shifts from soft and soothing to sharp command, "Frohike better *not* be eavesdropping if he knows what's good for him." Scully chortles and I picture her face below mine, looking up and smiling just for me. A slow smile creeps across my face and despite the public locale, I go for broke. "Scully?"

"Mulder," she croons, as if she's unwilling to end our impromptu conversation, just as I am.

Though I know Christmas has come and gone, my holiday has just arrived. Can I help it if my visions of sugarplums have dissolved into shades of green velvet? "Scully? What are you wearing?"

END

**Thanks for reading and Happy Holidays to all!**

* * *

Lyrics for 'Ordinary World' by Duran Duran

Came in from a rainy Thursday on the avenue.  
Thought I heard you talking softly.  
I turned on the lights, the TV and the radio.  
Still I can't escape the ghost of you.

What has happened to it all?  
Crazy, some'd say.  
Where is the life that I recognize?  
Gone away.

But I won't cry for yesterday.  
There's an ordinary world somehow I have to find.  
And as I try to make my way to the ordinary world,  
I will learn to survive.

Passion or coincidence once prompted you to say,  
"Pride will tear us both apart."  
Well now, pride's gone out the window;  
Cross the rooftops, run away.  
Left me in the vacuum of my heart.

What is happening to me?  
Crazy, some'd say.  
Where is my friend when I need you most?  
Gone away.

But I won't cry for yesterday  
There's an ordinary world somehow I have to find.  
And as I try to make my way to the ordinary world,  
I will learn to survive.

Papers in the roadside tell of suffering and greed.  
Here today, forgot tomorrow.  
Ooh, here beside the news of holy war and holy need  
Ours is just a little sorrowed talk.

And I don't cry for yesterday,  
There's an ordinary world somehow I have to find.  
And as I try to make my way to the ordinary world,  
I will learn to survive.

Every one is my world.

I will learn to survive.

Any one is my world.

I will learn to survive.

Any one is my world.

Every world is our world.


End file.
